Counterfeit at its Finest
by MistressFi
Summary: Lots of things aren't as they seem, as Sherlock is soon to discover, but the threads are intricately linked in a way that Sherlock can't resist.  Rating may change as story progresses.
1. Chapter 1

**Counterfeit at its Finest**

**Hi there**

I must say, I was totally skeptical when I heard there was a TV series 'Sherlock' as the movie set some high standards. _(I loved that film, okay?)_ All I'll say: the TV series hasn't left me disappointed. Not at **all**. My hat is raised to the cast and crew behind 'Sherlock'.

Also, there may be a lot of hefty description in this story. I can't show you the clues casually on TV, I've got to write the notable details in. _(It's worse because I actually have a habit of writing every little silly detail in when it's completely unnecessary. Especially my first-person stories, everything is described. So dull.) _If you don't drown in it... read on! Rating may change.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything you recognize or that is related to 'Sherlock' and I'm getting no profit from this.

**

* * *

Chapter One: The calm before the storm. **

John Watson was sitting at his desk in the clinic, having a five minute break after a particularly infuriating patient. The dear lady had come down with a cold, a _viral _infection, and there never seemed to be a end to the massive line of people with viral infections demanding a solution. _What's more, if you know it's a virus, why are you coming to me? _

John was never intentionally short-tempered, or intentionally snappy, but he had gotten a rather mean awakening first thing in the morning by his flat mate. Sherlock had started a fire with some home-made gunpowder, who for all reasons, had decided to make it _just because it had been a while_, and no; that was not a reasonable excuse. John had rushed to the rescue, preventing any further damage, but the table would have to be replaced, and some unread letters remained forever unreadable. And no, he was not soothed at the fact the fire didn't catch onto anything else, John was pissed because he'd have to be up in two hours to go to work.

Wiping his eyes and stifling a yawn, John checked the clock and counted the final hours down to the end of the day.

When John wasn't in the Surgery, he was running around London with Sherlock. If he wasn't running around London with Sherlock, he was lowering himself into the armchair _about_ to go running around London with Sherlock. In a small way, John didn't mind. Sherlock did all the research and John had a piece of the action. He would, however, _really_ like to get some sleep. His breath was starting to stink of coffee, and it was only two o'clock.

Sarah was on sick leave. She wasn't a military person, or Sherlock, so her stress was to be understood, and actually respected. She took Sherlock and John's adventures in good humor until she nearly got impaled by a spear. Sherlock didn't get why she had to have a holiday, but John knew, and he made sure to wish her the best before she went. To his absolute joy, Sarah didn't hate him, or even Sherlock. She just needed a small break.

John kind of hoped she would be back soon, though.

There was a soft beeping from Johns' mobile phone. A message:  
**Need milk. Semi-skimmed. Get a good one. SH**

John clicked on the buttons furiously in his reply:  
**I'm at WORK. You go get milk. **

Another tune of soft beeps.  
**You'll be home before I will. **

Quiet curses escaped John as he replied:  
**You better not make a noise when you return then.**

Beep.  
**No promises. SH**

John shoved his phone into his desk drawer. He would stop off at the shops on the way back, but maybe buy the full-cream milk, out of spite. Or Soya, he didn't know how Sherlock would react to Soya milk.

But at least John had a key, and was now warned Sherlock wouldn't be back tonight. Several times Sherlock had forgotten to tell him. John would never admit it, but he did panic.

Pressing the buzzer on his desk to signal another patient could come through, John reminded himself exactly what to expect after work. Pick up fresh milk of undetermined type, possibly a dinner for one, and another late night.

All of that, John Watson could handle. But if one more person came in demanding a virus cure...

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was currently clinging on top of a Sainsbury's delivery truck down the M23. A series of clues had led him to believe that this particular driver had hidden something with the groceries. From what he discovered, this delivery was dropping supplies off at a Service Station on the way towards Brighton. There would possibly be a gang waiting to collect it, maybe the staff itself. With a twang of annoyance, Sherlock remembered the suspected drop point was near Crawley, over an hour away.

One thing for sure, the wind sure was choppy on top of a delivery truck going down the motorway.

* * *

After finishing his hours, John returned to the flat at Baker Street with a tired mind, a pint of semi-skimmed milk and two microwavable dinners. He was greeted warmly by Mrs. Hudson; the delightful landlady. As delightful as Sherlock may call her, John did personally not approve of her nosing in, or her sly hints at their relationship. Several times John was tempted to show her his bedroom, just to prove he _was_ using it, but who knew what kind of suggestion _that_ would imply.

"Hello dear, good day at work?" she asked.

"As good as it gets." John replied, although a repetitive client was starting to get on his nerves. He suspected she was a hypochondriac, that or she really liked seeing him.

"Sherlock said he would be late home tonight, did he tell you?"

"Yes." John said, bitterness escaping his restraint answer.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled, "such a busy boy."

* * *

The Sainsbury's van had just pulled into Pease Pottage Services, and stopped in the large vehicle parking area. Sherlock, shivering slightly, watched the driver climb out and open the back of the lorry. Moving then, Sherlock slipped to the front of the vehicle, lowering himself down and jumping the last couple of feet.

He gave himself a moments rest.

Then he attacked.

* * *

With a friendly ping, the microwave called John over to get dinner. He did so, and ate in his armchair. Several times he and Sherlock agreed to tidy the flat up a bit, and several times they had done nothing about it. Now John, man o' the military, was a tidy well organized man. His room was spotless, almost. Sherlock, detective o' the dirty, had papers all over the tables, chairs and floors. Most of his books were on the floor, not the bookshelves, unwashed dishes flumped a confusing distance away from the sink. Just the other day John had discovered his favorite mug hanging from a ceiling lamp. When it wasn't hanging from somewhere, Sherlock was drinking out of it.

Annoying, certainly.

When finished his meal, John thought maybe to write in his blog. Nothing interesting had happened to him today... should he make something up, just to please his therapist? Maybe the details of his court trial. He had managed to escape punishment by saying he had noticed two vandals damaging property and went to stop them, but they escaped when they saw the policemen. The prosecutors had been a bit hasty to seek justice and therefore had too little evidence to make a persuasive case.

He escaped that one. But sharing the details, no. It wasn't something he really thought people ought to know.

* * *

Sherlock dodged a kick, ducked a punch, and with a swift hand jab the last foe went down. The police would arrive any moment, so without further ado, Sherlock leapt into the back of the lorry, rooting through the crates and bags. For such a large vehicle, there wasn't a lot of shopping.

He found it, wrapped into a protective case in a crate, and grinned to himself. This would look good at home on his skull...

Oh, but John would complain about more mess in the flat. God knows he did enough of that already. In his defense, the flat _was_ a mess. With a small sigh, Sherlock chose to hand the object over to the police, the whole reason he got caught up in this job. He could hear them pull up beside the lorry.

"Hello, inspector. Don't worry, I've got it." Sherlock grinned madly, waving the thousand year-old Viking helmet by its' nose piece. (The inspector was swift to return it to its' protective case.)

Performing a quick calculation, Sherlock determined that he had just caught the tea-time traffic- _Oh bugger- _and that it would take a few hours to get back to Baker Street. Before he left, he picked up a two pint carton of semi-skimmed milk.

* * *

John Watson was awoken from his armchair that evening by Sherlock stumbling through the door. He didn't even look at the mantle clock; he just glared at his friend as Sherlock hung his coat up, a sure sign that he was going nowhere tonight.

"Good party?" John asked, sleepily, and somehow forgetting about the anger he felt moments ago.

"Got milk." was Sherlock's reply, showing John the carton, and that act alone was enough to set John off.

"Sherlock, you told me to go and get it, why did you do that when you went and got it yourself?"

"It's always good to have a spare." said Sherlock, settling into his armchair, and dropping the milk to the floor.

"Are you going to put that in the fridge?"

"In a minute." Sherlock said, pressing his fingers together in a delicate hand gesture. After a few moments of silence, when John had decided he did want to know what Sherlock had been up too, he asked. Sherlock replied: "this and that..."

"Sherlock-"

"The museum had called about the Viking helmet, which they had expected to be delivered to them (I believe it's very rare and they wanted to study it) but never showed up. You see, this theft was planned, it turns out the delivery driver they hired was on holiday, so it was the thief who planned this filling in for him. He had a false identity and suspicious back ground, and was certainly not the man they hired for the job. He tried to leave a false trail and look as though he was heading to London, but changed direction last thing... I won't bore you with the details. I must say, however, the man lacked subtlety. A Sainsbury's delivery to a Marks and Spenser's outlet? Anyway, he planned to trade the helmet at a Service Station, which I happened to intercept."

"And then you stole two-pints of milk."

Sherlock grinned, "perceptive, John. You noticed I did not take my wallet with me." He then relaxed into his chair a little. "Not a hard case at all, but long distance. I would prefer, next time, something a little closer to London."

"How far did you go?

"Pretty far."

John was already on his laptop, looking up the helmet Sherlock had mentioned. He let out an appreciative whistle.

"It would have gone nicely on my skull, wouldn't it?" Sherlock asked, pointing at his mantelpiece decoration.

"What, you think there's any space? For gods sake, Sherlock, when it gets to the stage of there being no room on the floor, you don't start stacking it up!" John hissed. "And- good grief, _is that the time_? I've got work tomor- today!"

_Oh... dear..._, thought Sherlock. Whilst Sherlock had taken this mundane case, suspecting it had been the work of his last interest: the Black Lotus, he was quite disappointed to realize he wasted his energy on an ordinary and unexciting crime. General Shan had not been behind this, it had not been the work of the Black Lotus, (he should have known; he now cursed his rashness) and now John was going to give him a hard time. Not the best of days for Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm hungry..." Sherlock said, "where's that pie you had?"

Not even bothering to ask how he knew he ate pie for dinner, John said, "in the fridge waiting for you, and put the milk in there." He walked out the room muttering as Sherlock heated up his dinner/breakfast. He was struck by a moment of inspiration, but just as he contemplated the idea, John returned to glare at him. "Sherlock, I need sleep, if you blow anything up I'm locking you outside."

"John, _really_!" Sherlock asked.

John left without another word, but Sherlock was determined. He would just have to conduct his experiments _quietly_.

* * *

A hooded man, carrying in his arms a large package, hurried through the muddy backstreets, wincing with every squelch, avoiding with care the glare of yellow lamp lights. He kept to the shadows as much as possible and ran across the inescapable lit areas. He made a wrong turn momentarily, but retraced his steps and walked with much vigor.

Eventually, he reached an alleyway with a red lamp over a handle-less red door in the brick wall. As he approached, he looked around, and assured he was alone, he held the package tightly to his right hip with his hand, using his left to knock on the door.

_Rat-rat-rat-rat . . . rat-rat_.

The door opened with an eerie creak, and the man leapt into darkness, the door slamming shut behind him.

Half an hour later, the man walked out back into the streets of the town. Once the red door was shut behind him, he ran like his life depended on it.

* * *

John Watson was woken that morning by Sherlock, and not in a way he had expected. Having slept through his alarm, Sherlock took it upon himself to wake John. He had entered Johns' room and tripped over his briefcase. Sherlock landed rather softly, catching the floor with his hands and bending at the elbows, but his pride had just received a massive blow. _Thank god John hadn't just seen that._ Sherlock would never hear the end of how he was bettered by a briefcase

The thud, however, still woke John up, and sat up grumbling only to see Sherlock lying on the floor of his room, staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"... Sherlock?" John asked, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

Sherlock caught his chance. John was too sleepy to pay attention to whatever had just happened. "Hm? Oh, hello John. I've just noticed something fascinating down here."

"... on my floor? What?" John asked, his eyes closed as if the sun was blinding him.

"These floorboards are not attached." and with that, Sherlock demonstrated by pulling several wooden sleeves clean off. Just for good measure, of course, it wouldn't do for John to remember him on the floor and bring it up later.

John let out a cry, leapt out of bed and demanded he stop pulling the floor up. "Jesus, Sherlock, you've pulled- you've... how? Oh, it's just too early for this..."

Shrugging off his friend's complaints, Sherlock brushed himself down, told John he would be late for work if he didn't hurry up, and left without a second glance. John looked between the floor and his clock, choosing work as the priority and deciding the floor, Sherlock could repair.

The bathroom was a small square room, with a toilet and sink at one side, and a bathtub on the other with a shower up against the wall. A towel rack with three towels and a stool were against the wall beneath the light switch, and John put a fresh change of clothes there. Sherlock always dumped his dirty clothes down on the floor under the sink. The wash basket had been missing for some time. John stared at the pile of Sherlock's clothes, mainly because when he was in the army and shared rooms, he never did that. He was always tidy and considerate to those soldiers he shared with. Sherlock didn't seem to care about keeping up appearances in front of him, and yet here John was with his change of clothes in the bathroom with him.

Showered, dressed and about to leave, John caught his friend looking out the window, an expression of interest masked by a contemplative frown.

"It's not Scotland Yard, is it?" John asked, going into the rubbish dump that was the kitchen and writing a note for Sherlock. He stuck it against the fridge with one of the broken fridge magnets. With a quick look around the kitchen, he chose to get breakfast in town.

"Actually, it is."

"Another case for Sherlock Holmes, another late night for John Watson." John muttered, closing the door loudly behind him.

Sherlock smirked. At least John hadn't noticed the microwave yet.

**

* * *

A.N**- I'm leaning towards Sherlock/John, but make no promises. Is this chapter, rewritten, any better? I also don't know how well or how badly this has turned out, so if you have a moment, please leave some advice, suggestions or opinions. They would be really appreciated.

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Counterfeit at its Finest**

**Hello :)  
**

One thing before we begin: The Detective Inspector in the Black Lotus was called Dimmock, right? Or was that an insult? If he's not, I'll change it.

Thank you very much you lovely people for reviewing! I tend to thank my reviewers with PM's, but this: _Thank you_! goes out to people who have favorited and alerted my story too. **:)**

**

* * *

Chapter Two: You're not wanted.**

Sherlock met Detective Inspector Lestrade with a poor attempt at civility. Lestrade didn't look like he exactly wanted to be there either, but had a fixed expression of a frown in order to hide it. Had Sherlock even cared, he might have noticed it.

"What is it this time, Lestrade?" he asked, turned away from the detective so that he looked out the window, but could still see Lestrade out the corner of his eye, a pose he held around most of the police force.

With a rather heavy sigh, Lestrade said, "I've been receiving some complaints about you, Holmes."

"Again?"

"Again. You can probably guess why. My... superiors... have asked me to stop contacting you. They said it only encourages you." When Sherlock didn't speak, Lestrade said, "I'm to stop letting you in on the cases."

Sherlock turned to face Lestrade, the tiniest of smiles playing at his lip corners, "and since we both know that isn't going to happen, what did you come here for?"

"Sergeant Donovan is downstairs, thinking that I'm 'sacking' you. I actually wanted to ask you to keep out of anything I don't directly ask you to assist with me. And then, it's when I come to you. _Sherlock_," he said quickly, noticing the disgust flicker across Sherlock's' face, "they are willing to charge you on a number of things, like possession of evidence, getting in the way of the force, letting criminals escape, whatever happened on that case with Dimmock-!"

"I didn't let her escape." Sherlock said, sharply. _And I don't come to you for cases._

"It's your word against facts." Lestrade snapped, "Christ, Holmes, all I'm asking is that you keep out of the cases until I ask for your help. Donavan, Anderson, they are prepared to get you into trouble with the law."

"Has Andersons wife discovered his little fling, then?"

"Someone blabbed, and guess where the fingers pointed." Lestrade said, "look, they'll come to their senses. Besides, the cases at the moment are simple, and practically solved. I'm just letting you know so you don't come down to Scotland Yard and cause trouble."

"Me?" Sherlock asked, "cause trouble?" But his attempt at a joke was half hearted, his heart heavy.

The stairs creaked as Donavan entered, leaning against the wall expectantly. "Well, you told him yet? It's taking a while."

"He knows." Lestrade answered, Sherlock keeping his back to them. "He won't come to bother us anymore." For a moment, Lestrade paused, as if wanting to say something, but turned and left after his Sergeant.

Sherlock watched them go, meeting Lestrade's eyes for a brief moment through the window.

It... wasn't very fair. For one thing, Sherlock _never_ went to them, the Yard came to him. When Sherlock discovered something on his own, he reported it out of decency. Sometimes the Yard and Sherlock helped each other. But of course, he was successful and scary, and the other 'normal' detectives were jealous, and unable to see the bigger picture or beyond their own reputations.

He went to see what the note John had left said:  
**Please can you tidy away your things and fix my floor before I get back. Cheers. John. **

To think of all the things Sherlock had to do. _Of all things_. He had to clean and fix the floorboards. Maybe he could get Mrs. Hudson to do it...

* * *

"Ah... Miss Phillips." John said, although his voice was empty of politeness. Katherine Phillips had visited yet again, as she had done every other day, complaining about something. "Take a seat."

She did so slowly, looking at him very nervously.

"What seems to be the problem? Baring in mind you've seen me frequently now and we determined it was stress." John asked. As she reminded him of all her symptoms, John examined her external ones. She was very pale, with dark rings under her eyes which gave her cheeks a rather large area. Her eyes kept watering slightly, as if she was on the verge of tears. Tiredness and illness had that effect on someone.

She wore large jumpers and baggy trousers, making her look very large, but small thin hands trembled in her lap, and she twisted some of her fingers as if hoping to break them off, except for the few moments when she had to tuck some loose hair behind her ears.

"A-and I just feel really hot all over..." she explained, shivering. "A-are you sure you can't prescribe something?"

"Hm... I can give you stress relief tablets." John said, "we've already taken samples from you and you came back normal for all of them. I honestly think you're just worked up about something. You say you feel like this constantly?"

"Y-yeah."

"Perhaps you've got General Anxiety Disorder... tell me, have you taken any exams recently, and are you going to?"

"Yeah... I've taken my uni exams.. I'm waiting for the results."

"Any troubles at home, anything you think could cause stress?"

"No..."

John printed out a leaflet about GAD and handed it to her. Her fingers lightly held onto it and without looking at it, stuffed it into her pocket. For good measure, John wrote out a prescription for the tablets. She left with a small thank you, giving John a few minutes extra alone.

Thinking back over it, he wondered if he'd been too harsh on her. Yet every time she came to him, there was nothing wrong with her, she just insisted on returning. There could be other patients more in need, and his time was occupied by the one who didn't need him at all. And if she had been lying, it was hardly like John could pry into her private life. She said nothing about family problems, and it wasn't exactly right to ask her the same question until she gave him the answer he expected. If there was something wrong, _she had to say so_.

He wondered if Sherlock looked at the note. No doubt Sherlock saw him writing it, but would he see what it said?

Probably not.

Maybe he should give Sherlock a little reminder. But when he got his mobile phone out, he noticed a text from someone he didn't really want to get one from.

Harry. His sister.  
**Hey bro, how r u doin? U found a place to live yt? R u sure u dont want me 2 help? Hvnt herd frm u in ages. TB. H x**

So he'd forgotten to tell Harriet about moving in with Sherlock. He was _going_ to tell her, but she would want to meet him, and John was worried about what Sherlock would be able to deduce from her. John had felt uncomfortable under the examinations, god knows how Harriet would feel.

He put his phone away. He'd talk to her later. After speaking to Sherlock, of course.

* * *

In 221b Baker street that late afternoon, two men were depressed. John took his armchair, Sherlock already in his, and there was silence. Mrs. Hudson must have been cooking something; the hallway had a strong smell of micro-waved peas which made John feel a little bit ill, a heaviness in his heart he couldn't explain.

"What's wrong?" he asked Sherlock.

"Hm? Oh, nothing's wrong..." Sherlock began, trailing off. But John could see his eyes had a slightly angry dark look in them.

"You sure? I _am_ a Doctor."

Sherlock smirked for a brief second, but the dark look was back almost instantly. "Lestrade visited me just after you left. He said I'm to stop interfering with Scotland Yard."

"But you're not interfering, are you?" John asked, "come on, they came to you about the serial suicide case, and Sebastian hired you for the last one we did. And those other ones you did without me-"

"Apparently," Sherlock said, his voice full of bitterness, "that was me sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong. I've been warned. I'm not to take any cases which coincide with the Yard's investigations. Lestrade said he'd still seek my advice, but less often now, and secretly."

"Is that bad?"

Sherlock glanced at him for a moment. "Depends how you look at it."

"For you?"

"Very much so."

John didn't have any supportive words to give, and he hated how hopeless he was just then. How Sherlock managed to pull off a sulk with such sophistication, John couldn't being to explain, but what Sherlock needed was kind words and John had none.

It wasn't as if John didn't have a couple of problems himself. For one thing, relations with his sister was becoming thin and John was well aware that he was being the bad guy by ignoring her. A second thing was how lonely John felt. Sarah was away, he hadn't made any other friends yet, and it was a Friday night. John was far too proud to admit it, but he was goddamn lonely. Most of military friends were still there in the military, the others were dead. The only one here was Sherlock, who John saw in a sudden urge of anger, was having a temper tantrum because Scotland Yard accused him of something he hadn't done.

Damn, John needed to find him a woman, and one who was not Mrs. Hudson.

"Why don't we go out this evening?" John suggested. "Do you know any good clubs..." but he trailed off when Sherlock glanced at him, bewildered. "... er... no to the clubs then. That's fine. Well, I have been saving a bit, and I've got enough to get tickets to somewhere, like a theatre or... or... Sherlock, are you still with me?"

But Sherlock was silent, content to stare at the ceiling.

Well, John could always stay here and read something. A little dull, but Sherlock was being awkward. He couldn't tell whenever Sherlock wanted him to stay for moral support or leave him to sulk. Hadn't Sherlock said he could be silent for days on end?

With a sudden thought, John mumbled a quick, "I'll be back later." before leaving Sherlock alone in the flat.

Sherlock watched him leave silently. He could see John had an issue on his mind and yet all Sherlock could think about was how insulted _he_ felt. How could people complain about him when he did them a favour? Sherlock caught the criminals too smart to be caught by Scotland Yard, Sherlock gave them their good name, and he was returned by threats. If he crossed paths with them on any case, pathetic charges would be held against him. He couldn't risk another fake drugs bust, it had been damn luck they'd not found his stash. And there were probably enough claims to have Sherlock suspected of most of the crimes they solved.

Had John noticed the tidy kitchen? Sherlock didn't think he had.

* * *

In the Boots store, a girl was flicking through the selection of toiletries, choosing several items from the back of the display. Satisfied, Katherine Phillips went to the checkout, packing the chosen items into plastic bags with hurry.

"This box is a bit bashed." the checkout lady said, but Katherine assured her there was no problem.

She pulled out a note to pay with, pocketing the couple of pence change. Hitching her backpack more firmly against her back, wincing when she heard something slush, she entered the busy street and walked briskly, but slightly shaky. She kept walking, taking several turns and side streets, and with fluidness she pulled her door key out of her other pocket, opened the door and slid through, locking it behind her. She paused for several minutes inside her house, and unable to hear anything other than her own ragged breathing, she turned on a lamp in the hallway to give herself enough light to see the outline of her house. She very carefully placed her belongings onto the sofa, wiping her eyes of the tears that had sprung up, momentarily.

She unpacked the Boots bag, the slightly rough looking boxes dumped on the cushions. A cat meowed rather violently, causing Katherine's hands to clasp over her mouth in fear and for more tears to escape.

* * *

It was only a short walk from the taxi into Scotland Yard, and John demanded he see Detective Lestrade immediately. John decided to get out the flat for a bit, giving Sherlock some alone time, but he had needed a purpose to leave, so he followed his instinct and decided to question the Detective Inspector. Lestrade met him at the reception desk and walked with him out of the building to the fence which bordered the grounds. Lestrade stood beneath a tree hidden in shadow, John had his back to a streetlamp so that only his back was lit up.

"Is it about Holmes?" Lestrade asked.

Glancing around him, finding the situation a little odd, John replied, "Yeah... I wanted to ask you myself, why is he banned from your cases?"

Shooting a quick glance behind him, but relaxing a little, Lestrade said, "the Yard isn't happy about being shown up. Lots of the men are jealous of Sherlock's ability and me for getting the credit for it. Detective Inspector Dimmock doesn't think it's fair either, but several of the men are threatening to press charges."

"Yeah, I heard about that." John said.

"It's not like I probably won't need to go to Holmes about something," Lestrade said, "but the likelihood is if I get caught, I could get fired. If it gets known I owe all my success to Holmes, I will be sacked."

"What, so this is to save your own neck?" Watson asked, abruptly.

Lestrade paled but stood firm, "Haven't you listened to me?"

"Yeah, I have." John said, "and he's not just helped you, he's helped loads of people, so why do loads of people want him to stop?"

With a very stony expression, Lestrade said, "just tell him to sit tight, would you?" With a short pause, Lestrade said, "keep him away from Scotland Yard, Doctor Watson." He spoke so darkly that Watson was stunned into silence. It was such a sudden change of tone that he couldn't even think. "I _said_ I'll contact him if there is anything worth contacting him about. Until then, he has to stay away."

Lestrade shifted out of the shadow, "is that all?"

"Yes... thank you..." John said, and he watched Lestrade hurry back into the building.

Something wasn't right. Something really wasn't right. He couldn't point the fault out exactly, but he knew it was there. Why would the Detective hold this conversation outside, in the dark, and why did he look so... careful, looking behind his back every two minutes? Sherlock would find out, but Sherlock was being anti-social.

John standing alone in the dark was exactly how he felt.

**

* * *

A.N- **I do plan to bring Harriet in, but I'd like to know what she looks like first, and a bit about her character would be grand.

I accept any CC, I don't think this is a very good chapter. Possibly because nothing has happened yet. **:(**

**Thanks for reading**.


	3. Chapter 3

**Counterfeit at its Finest**

**Hi, :)**

Nothing happens in this chapter. Literally. Nothing. **:( GRR! **Please forgive me. I've got Sherlock withdrawal symptoms and that last episode totally nicked my idea for this story. After a lengthy consideration, I've decided to keep with the original plot, even though you've already witnessed the deduction. Sorry about that. **:(** I have also decided that, coincidentally, this story fits quite neatly between the second and third episode. So you're gonna get Sherlock and John fluffy episodes, but I can't pair them up, m'fraid. Maybe next story. **  
**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Late Night Bonds and Early Morning Coffee**

When John crept up the stairs that night, after hurrying in when it began to rain outside, he was being extra careful not to wake Sherlock up, just in case Sherlock _had_ fallen asleep.

He should have known, however, when he entered the flat and Sherlock was in the exact same position he had left him in, staring at the damned same patch on the wall.

"Oh... so definately not planning to go out tonight?" John asked, as he hung his coat up. "What about that Bond night I promised?"

Sherlock mumbled something incohersive.

"Shall I take that as a yes?" John asked, very calmly although he found the situation very fustrating.

Sherlocks next move surprised John greatly. He actually sat up, yawning, and nodding. John stared, trying to convince himself he hadn't just imagined it. No, Sherlock genuinely agreed to watch a Bond film. The first time John suggested that, he got nothing but sarcasm back.

Lucky for John, he was already equiped with beers and nibbles, and still had the old copies of the Bond films that Harry had given him. She never understood his like for them, and really, there wasn't one, but it seemed strange that Sherlock didn't know about one of the greatest and most publisised fictional heroes.

Well, actually, not _that_ strange.

Grinning with the strangest sense of success, John went into the kitchen to get the drinks.

* * *

Early morning investigations were the worst for Scotland Yard. Lestrade hated them. Within an hour of waking up, he could have to be at a crime scene and possibly examining bodies in any kind of condition. Traffic in London was always, but luckily it wasn't holding them up at 8.00am. The only thing a detective team would agree on that was worse than a hard case, was hard traffic.

Nevertheless, the car stopped by the street and Lestrade and Donavan walked towards the taped off house, mugs of strong smelling coffee in hand. It was a tiny retangle sticking out in a line of other small rectangle shaped homes. A squeaking gate led into a small poorly paved path to the front door, with bushes sticking out either side, twigs snapping as they walked past. The door was currently open due to the people going in and out. Anderson was in at the moment, mapping the blood trail that was splattered down the stairs. When he saw them arrive, he motioned them to follow him up the stairs.

"I hope you've not eaten anything this morning, Sergeant." came Andersons cool voice from the top of the steep staircase, but Lestrade heard the queeziness in his voice.

"... is it that bad?" Sally Donavan asked, but she didn't move any closer into the house.

"... come and see for yourself..."

"Because _that_'s not eerie." Donavan muttered, but she took several brave strides in. Lestrade followed her up the stairs, making an immediate turn into the narrow hallway and walking straight into the bedroom. Donavan stared wide eyed at the scene in front of her. She had turned almost as pale as Anderson.

"Oh my god..." she whispered at last.

"Christ." Lestrade agreed. There was stunned silence for at least a minute as all three of them took in the bedroom, the walls and the bed completely covered in blood.

Lestrade was quiet, looking around the room at the floor, where blood had dripped leaving a trail out of the house. Catching Andersons eyes, Anderson said: "it has been raining, otherwise the blood would be on the pathway."

"So our killer... killed Phillips and carried the body down here-"

"H-Hang on, how do we know Phillips didn't just walk down here?" Donavan asked.

Lestrade just motioned towards the bed, "would you be walking anywhere with that much blood loss?"

"I guess not, but what if-?"

"We can't make any theories until I find a bit more evidence." Anderson said hurriedly, "so far, it's just blood. I've yet to find DNA, fingerprints or weapons."

"Keep searching, Anderson." Lestrade said, quickly exiting the bedroom and choosing to examine the other rooms, ones he found were gladly bloodless.

* * *

The Bond night had gone on longer than anticipated, meaning both Sherlock and John had rather late starts. Sherlock got into the shower first, leaving John to flick through the channels yawning. He was feeling pretty snug tightly wrapped inside his old olive green dressing gown, a woolen one Harry brought for his Christmas several years ago. It had been a long time since he had felt anything remotely that soft against his skin, so he savoured it. He was just about to go into the bathroom when he heard Sherlock go in. John had let out a loud "Sherlock, I was just about to go in there!" which went unheard, as always. He wouldn't take too long though, as Sherlock didn't do anything mundane for long, but long enough for John to catch the news headlines.

"Dear god..." John groaned, noticing the time. "Ten o'clock?"

The army would never have let this happen. He drank quite a lot last night too, as had Sherlock, and he had a nasty feeling they had thrown food at each other. He was no consulting detective, but there were crisp crumbs and stray peanuts all over the floor.

_"... statements from locals express distress over the loss of Mr Cunnings..."_

John would have thought the news could show a few more positive things at ten in the morning on a Saturday.

There was a polite knocking on the door. "Sherlock? Doctor Watson? It's only me, dears." Mrs. Hudson said. John opened the door for her, and she walked straight through carrying a tray in her hands, placing it delicately on the coffee table at the side.

"Here you go, Doctor. Late night? Yeah, I thought so. I could hear shouting until two o'clock in the morning, _two o'clock_! It's alright though, I got a kip in yesterday afternoon, I was just doing a bit of knitting last night. Besides, I thought you and Sherlock would like a complimentary cup of tea and those biscuits you requested. A one off, of course, don't expect this royal treatment every day."

"Oh... thank you..." John said, who was always quite humbled by Mrs. Hudson's frequent moments of hospitality. She really was a sweet thing, if not a little intrusive and sometimes suggestive.

_"... the police are investigating into a newly discovered crime. Reported this morning by the local postman..." _

Mrs. Hudson began talking again, oblivious to the fact that she was talking through the news. "Another crime? There never seems to be an end to these things, does there? Of course, that's good news for our Sherlock, but bad news for the poor sod on the recieving end."

John laughed lightly, "bad news indeed- ow!" he sat heavily down in his chair when his back began to ache. Little familiar spasms of pain.

"Oh, dear, are you alright?"

"Yeah..." John replied, "I must have slept funny..." He didn't tell her that he woke up sprawled over the chair, because he didn't want her to think he had drunk _that_ much. She had already heard the shouting, the drinking might be a bit too much for her. He realized with slightly grit teeth that he was an injured man, and he would have to take things a little carefully.

"Hm... I did wonder whenever the mattresses were soft enough." Mrs. Hudson laughed. "It's a good thing I took your bin out today, no stress on that back for you, doctor!"

Rather than think of something to say back, the door swung open with a slam, Sherlock poking his head around the corner. He was still covered in droplets of water, but his eyes were looking between Mrs. Hudson (who jumped out of her skin) and the teapot she had just brought in hungrily.

"Is that... jasmine and orange..." he sniffed the air, "yes, jasmine and orange, the very flavours I asked for two days ago which _you_ said you did not have."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him puzzled. "Did you, dear?"

"That I _did_."

Interupting the conversation, John asked, "so, er, are you done with the shower?"

Sherlock shook his head, "no, no... just wanted to check..." with his eyes still on the teapot, he slid outside of the room. John watched him go, shaking his head with surpressed amusement.

Mrs. Hudson also watched him. "He'll get a terrible cold, not drying off. I've been trying to get a repairman in for the hallway heating, but they apparently seem to think there isn't one!" Then she stopped, a bright smile on her face, "anyway, I am sorry for disturbing you, I should probably give you two some alone time." She winked.

"Um, alright, feel free to drop by anytime..." John said, holding the door open for her.

She paused in the doorway for a second, turning to face him with a warm smile, "thank you. If I might just make one request, and this is entirely confidential between landlady and clients, alright?"

"Um, sure."

She looked around her quickly, and then said softly: "try and keep it down next time, dear. I know it's incredibly exciting, oh, and you've got nothing to be ashamed of!, it's just likely upstairs might forget to take her sleeping pills and hear you. A little bit quieter, if you can." she said, winking again.

John looked at her apologetically, "I'm sorry for any disturbance we made."

"No, no! It's quite alright, dear, like I say, nothing to be ashamed of, and certainly don't stop! I used to stay up all night too, you know." she said, her smirk getting even wider.

"Oh... so you're a Bonds fan too?" John said, grinning. He couldn't imagine Mrs. Hudson staying up all night watching a cheesy chickflick and disturbing the other flatmates with the noise.

Mrs. Hudson laughed, slapping Johns arm lightly. "Cheeky!" and she trottered off.

A little bit bemused, John closed the door behind her, and waited for Sherlock to go out of the shower.

* * *

Lestrade shook his head, speaking to Donavan in order to get his facts right. "So... our postman noticed when he was putting the leaflets through the door that the door was open, and when he noticed it was open, he noticed the obvious blood stains on the floor. He then followed it upstairs to the bedroom, found... that... and fled, calling the police immediately. According to him, the door was swinging open anyway. However, when we examined it, the door looked like it had been kicked open violently. The other rooms are fine, it's just the bedroom and hall which are stained. So... he knew who he was after? This looks like a violence based attack rather than sinister murder."

"Most of our violent based attacks leave bodies, though. If the murderer was trying to hide the body, there must be some sort of clue as to who they are." Donavan said, "no, listen, maybe we're dealing with someone who has killed before."

"Probably. What did Anderson discover?" Lestrade said.

"The blood samples are still being tested in the lab, but he says there aren't any traces of DNA other than that of Miss Phillips, like hair strands. Other than that, he's not managed to find anything."

"Did neighbours see anything?"

"No, they claim they heard noises but they thought the cats were playing again, and it didn't sound anything serious. One said he looked out the window at about 11 o'clock, but it was normal."

Lestrade pressed his fingers against his temples, "This doesn't sound good. Are you still looking into Phillips history?"

"Yep. You'll have more on that in a moment, but we need to figure out how a person broke into a house, killed a woman, and hid the body without leaving a trace of himself behind."

"Maybe Anderson will find something."

"Maybe, but we're going to need to say something for the media." Donavan's look darkened, "don't ask for _his_ help."

"What?" Lestrade asked, snapping his head up.

Donavan looked around her shiftily, "just... don't. I'm sure Anderson will find something."

"He hasn't so far."

"Give him time. We've only just begun the investigation, you're not so hopeless you need to call the freak in already?"

* * *

Sherlock and John were seated at a quiet Bistro for brunch. The waitress had been very keen to serve them, and John could have sworn the tablecloth they were given had been washed.

Of course, Sherlock took no notice of it, but rather frowned at the menu.

"Coffee, black, two sugars." he said, finally, letting John order a fry up. Sherlock eyed the food with distaste, which John noticed, but chose to ignore.

John occupied himself by eating, hoping Sherlock might start talking to fill the silence. Sherlock just looked miserable, if anything, but he did so quietly. His eyes flickered through the traffic behind John's head, his chin resting on his fist as his other hand stirred the coffee as if it was the most mundane task in the world.

"Not too hung over, are you?" John asked, smiling. "You lightweight."

"I'm alright." Sherlock replied, sipping his coffee. "Although I've never stayed up all night watching a film before... and I still don't see the genius behind this Bond fellow."

"Really, you don't see...?"

Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "what is so great about a man who fires a gun and gets the girl in the end? _I_ can shoot a gun, _you_ can shoot a gun, a spy that _can't_ shoot a gun is an idiot. Where does the women even come in? Has she any purpose to the plot at all?"

_Trust Sherlock not to look beyond that. He goes blind at the whiff of romance._ John thought. He really wanted to question Sherlock about his love life. It wasn't any of his business, and it wouldn't make much of a difference, but John couldn't help but wonder anyway. Harriet was like that too, only she was vocal about it. "I think it's the adventure. The appeal is behind the action, the duty to country thing..." he trailed off, knowing exactly that Sherlock would make some comparison between the film and John's military experience. The films had not influenced him at all. Civilian life did not suit John, but he didn't want to think about that.

"So, do you read much?" John asked, as casually as he could whilst trying not to drop eggs down his front.

"How'd you mean..."

"Have you found any good books with thick plots, mystery novels, or... you know, real characters? I mean, some people like the light reads and stories without depth, and movies without twists and things. Others are into the thick classics, Charles Dickens, Poe, Austin... what about you?"

After a carefully timed pause, Sherlock said, "I _have_ read the classics. I didn't think too much of it then. Literature is not something I bother with."

John wiped his mouth with his napkin. "So what's on the book shelf?"

"Books, John. Science books, files I've put together myself, maps and timetables, things I don't memorize." Sherlock explained, "for most things I just use my phone or my laptop, but I've kept records for the things I can't store so easily."

John felt he had just learnt a new fact about Sherlock, but at the same time, was rather alarmed by Sherlock's dedication to his work.

Sherlock felt like he'd just... had an_ intimate_ moment with John. Most people he met really didn't give a toss about his interests, and assumed he was a 'work' driven psycopath. It was... nice... to have someone ask, for someone to act like they really did want to know him as a person.

Sherlock coughed, trying to distract the thoughts. Once they bubbled up, it became a hot whirlwind where he could think of nothing else and it burned his mind. "Well, I never really had time to read, and like I say, there's better action tales on the streets. For example, John, if you could pick between the Bond life and the Holmes life, which would you pick?"

John laughed, but slightly nervously. "How'd you mean?"

Sherlock was smirking now, "If you could choose which adventure to have, which would it be? Would you be the Bond that shoots randomly and hopes it hits, or would you choose our most recent adventure with the Black Lotus gang? Exactly... as it... happened." Sherlock finished, folding his fingers into a bridge to rest his chin on as he watched John with curiosity.

What _would_ John pick? The Bond's life wasn't real, for a start, but if it _was_ a possibility, would John rather have the special agent missions with unlimited technology, weapons, heroic outcome and a hot date? Or would he stick to the journeys he had had with Sherlock, the up and running around London at a moments notice, the adrenalin rush and impossible to figure out mysteries? (And a hot date that nearly gets killed.)

By logic, John should have picked the Bonds life.

But to tell Sherlock that would feel like lying.

"I don't know." John said, calmly. "They're both good."

Sherlock just nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. He had expected John to say the Bond life, even if it was just to spite him, but John hadn't. _How humbling_...

Johns attention was caught by the television hanging in the corner. Lestrade was making a statement, but beside him was a picture of... Katherine Phillips.

_"If any friends or family wish to contact us, it would be really appriciated. We have reason to believe Miss Phillips was victim to an attack..."_

"John?" Sherlock asked.

John motioned to the TV, "I... I saw that girl yesterday at work. She's been a patient of mine for a while..." Sherlock turned to watch the TV, eyes narrowing at the sight of Lestrade and Donavan. John pressed his hand to his face, trying to calm the screaming thoughts in the back of his head. "She came in several times convinced she was ill, but all the samples we took showed no sign of any sickness. But every time I saw her, she looked a little bit worse... she was visibly shaking yesterday..."

"Sounds like she was expecting it." Sherlock said, casually.

"She was expecting it, and _I didn't notice_..." John said, "I... I diagonosed her with GAD, Sherlock!"

If Sherlock was smiling, he hid it extremely well. "I don't think you can be blamed for that... was she pale? Shaky? Tired but sleepless?"

"Well... lethargic." John nodded, taking a deep swing of his tea. _Why do I feel like I should have noticed something wrong with her? _

Sherlock got out his mobile phone, "would you like to talk to Lestrade, then? It might help you calm down."

"Calm? I'm calm, I _am_ calm. I don't need to- yes, thank you." John said, holding it up to his ear and tapping his finger impatiently with each ring.

It picked up. "Sherlock, dammit, I said _I_'d contact _you_." hissed Lestrade.

"It's John Watson." John said, "I've just borrowed Sherlock's phone."

"Oh... he lets you do that?" Lestrade asked, (Sherlock pulled a face) but before John could answer, Lestrade said, "never mind that, I have been meaning to get in touch with _you_. Do you know about Miss Katherine Phillips?"

"Yes!" John gasped, "I just heard about it now."

"She did come and see you yesterday, then, as well as a few times within the last month?"

"Yeah."

"I need a statement then. You'll need to come down to the scene of the crime, though, I'm heading there now. I suppose you won't be able to get rid of _him_ then, will you?" After getting the address, John gave Sherlock's phone back.

"That was odd." John said, "Anyway, are you coming?"

"Private party." Sherlock mumbled.

"Consider yourself invited by yours truly." John said, smiling.

**

* * *

A.N: -_-** Three thousand words and nothing happened. Doh. I sort of have a chapter limit, I try not to make the range differ too much.

I will get around to thanking for all your reviews! I'm sorry, it's been a while since I was on here last. I'll catch up, promise.** =P**

**Thanks for Reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Counterfeit at its Finest**

**Hi!**

And the award for 'Latest-Chapter-Ever' goes to... me. Sorry about that. **:(**

_Thank you EVERYONE for reviewing so far!_ You guys made my day. **:)**

This scene contains a hefty amount of blood. Just, er, warning you now. **:)** It's a bit gorey... apparently. If anyone reckons the rating needs to change, just say so! (otherwise, K+ is still cool?)

* * *

**Chapter Four: Staring evidence in the face.**

The look of shock and horror that crossed Andersons' face the moment he saw Sherlock Holmes leap out of the customary taxi was quickly replaced by anger when he saw John Watson unable to resist a smile.

"Lestrade, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, meeting his boss angrily in the doorway. "What is that man _doing here_?"

"I expect John Watson invited him." Lestrade said quietly.

"I've said it time and time again, that weirdo is not allowed on crime scene premises! Why do you _insist_ on inviting him?"

"I said Watson did, not I." Lestrade responded, sharply, "I only asked for Watson to join us."

"But he doesn't even need to do that! We can conduct interviews later, away from this place."

"Why bother? We're interviewing everyone else here." Lestrade said, moving away, but Anderson was quick to speak again.

"You know what our higher-ups said. If they catch a civilian helping us, again, you are going to be in some serious trouble. I don't need to explain it to you..." he stopped watching Lestrade's face darken, a clear sign he knew all too well, "I'm not saying this because I hate him, I'm saying this because our lives are on the line. We can't let that weirdo strut around here and solve our crimes for us."

"No..." Lestrade said, "but... of course... he's near impossible to turn away once he arrives."

"Lestrade-!"

"No, Anderson, I'm not causing a scene here." Lestrade explained, sharply, "he's here now. Maybe he'll not do anything. Either way, I'll make sure he keeps his distance from you."

"So you can interviene when it suits you?" Anderson asked, accusingly.

"Yes, I can." Lestrade replied, firmly, "Anderson, I'm taking a big risk letting him in here. Please don't fight with me."

"I'm not trying to fight you, I'm trying to watch out for you." Anderson said, but noticing Sherlock nearing, he hurried up back the stairs.

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the house to look around. The house itself was tiny, immediately though the front door were narrow stairs leading to the second floor. On the immediately left of the staircase was the door to the living and dining room, further down the hall was the kitchen, which also had a washroom. Up the stairs were three rooms, the bathroom immediately in front, the main bedroom on the left and a much smaller bedroom at the front of the house, a linin closet between them.

The carpet was the same throughout the whole house, a cheap brown mat. _Stiff, harsh on clothing, stains hard to get out._ The walls looked like they needed painting over again, the corners of the walls dusty and peeling. _House generally uncared for. _There were no pictures on the walls. _University student not affording to decorate... still unlikely. No artifacts or gifts from any relatives or friends. _He followed the stairs up, eyes catching every scrape against the wall, every streak mark, every drop of blood, every creak of the steps. _Have been under significent pressure just recently. _

John followed him into the bedroom. The bed was a single bed, the sheets torn and twisted into an unrecognisable heap. And there was blood. Lots of blood. Drenching the pillows, smeared across the walls, the ripped mattress, stained a bright and shiny red.

"Good Lord..." John whispered. John has seen a lot from his time in the military, no doubt about that, but it had been in the military, and this, whilst still unpleasant, wasn't exactly unlikely. For a scene as gruesome as this... to be within someones home and not a battle field... well, this told a tale not unlike the events at a battle field. It was one of the benefits of hanging around Sherlock; you found the battle fields.

Sherlock was already tracing the clues. _Mattress ripped in all corners. Sheets shoved to the left side of the bed, away from the door. So the attacker came through the door. _He checked the other side of the bed, _escape unlikely. _He followed the blood trail back out the room and back down the stairs, using his hand to slightly brush against the banister. He paused at the bottom, looking up and down them.

"There wasn't a body, was there?" Sherlock asked. "You didn't find anything."

"No." Lestrade said, "we think the murderer hid the body. But we're not quite sure how. We took photographs of the scene, we checked all the knives in the kitchen, they're all clean. So we have no body, no known murder weapon, no suspect."

"How do you think the body was moved?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade scratched his nose, "it's with bin bags, usually."

"Right. And we can see from the droplets on the staircase that the murder walked backwards down the stairs- oh _really_, the blood is on the inside of the steps. If the murderer carried the body down first, the blood would have only hit the outer edges of the stairs."

"That's not neccessarily true," Lestrade said, "the blood dripped a lot, so it-!"

"Look at the pattern," Sherlock said, pointing it out, "there are several drops on the inside, which means the murder slowly lowered themselves down the stairs, backwards. On the flat hallway, the blood drops evenly again. Yet, you can see from the fresh, rather ground in dirt, that someone walked up these stairs on the outer edge..."

Lestrades phone went off, and he answered it with an alarmed: "Donovan?" and excused himself from the house to take the call outside.

Sherlock spoke immediately, "John, how strong do you think you would have to be to carry a nine stone body down a flight of creaking stairs with one hand?"

"One hand?"

"The banister, there are slight rub marks on it which correspond to the blood trail. However, there are streaks against the wall made by clothing."

"These stairs are really narrow, though, Sherlock."

"Yes, but, also very creaky. The carpet along the wall is more worn down than the centre of the carpet, where everyone has been walking. This means Phillips walked up the inside of the stairs where it's stronger and where it doesn't creak."

"... I don't get it."

"It just raises a few questions. For example, Phillips knew the quietest way up the stairs was to use to side where it's stronger. You said she was jumpy, so perhaps she disliked loud noises. It looks like she was attacked in the bedroom. So, why didn't she hear her attacker climb the stairs if she was restless and the attacker was noisy?"

"How do you know she didn't?"

"The duvet."

"Oh, well, I don't know, Sherlock." He then paused, adding: "Fear does strange things to people."

Sherlock, as careless as ever, carried on, "yes, but surely curiousity would cause a person to investigate the noise? In which case, Phillips would have exited the bed on the side closest to the door."

A different voice, bitter and angry, spoke next, "not everyone gets a sick kick out of crime, Holmes."

"Oh, Anderson, you've stopped hiding in the toilet then?" Sherlock asked, "I was wondering when you would come out to greet us. I was also sort of hoping you wouldn't, of course..."

"I don't think you appriciate the circumstances here." Anderson snapped, "or do you think it would be fine if someone broke into your house solely to murder you? Would you find it _curious_, then?"

John couldn't help but think Anderson had a point. Sherlock was tackless, sometimes.

"I think I have had, and solved, much tougher crime mysteries. This one won't take long." Sherlock said, confidently, "if I left you to it, however, I don't think you'd ever leave this house."

"What is that suppose to mean?" Anderson demanded.

"I mean, as a detective, you're imcompetant." Sherlock explained, casually. Within seconds, Anderson had made a lunge for Sherlock who swiftly stepped back. A fight was going to break out between them within minutes if John didn't do something.

"What the-!" John roared, "_stop this now_!"

Well, it worked in the army.

Sherlock moved out of the way once more to avoid Anderson from grabbing his collar, and then swiftly grabbed the back of Andersons coat, hissing, "Tell me, Anderson, is the fresh mud on the stairs _yours_?" Anderson pulled back, snarling, and was just about to throw a punch-

Lestrade reentered the room, demanding, "stop _what_ now?"

"Nothing." Sherlock replied innocently, and Anderson moved away from him, cursing under his breath. "So, have you conducted any interviews as of yet?"

"I have a man questioning the neighbours, he'll be finished within the next two hours. Donovan has just been inspecting the university Miss Phillips attended, we can get statements later. Well, as you're here, anything worthwhile to contribute, or am I breaking police laws for the hell of it?"

"I, however, am very curious as to why 27 year old Katherine Phillips attended university, had a job, and yet has a barely decorated home." Sherlock said, talking over Lestrade as if he had barely heard him.

"Maybe she wasn't staying here for a long time? Just until finishing uni, this is a very inexpensive house."

"Yes, but she has absolutely no belongings other than the furniture that came with the house. I suspect she was saving money, yes, but also had no friends or family, or at least no friends aware of how she lived."

John was quiet for a moment before speaking up, "when I came back from Afganistan I had nothing either. I see where you're coming from, though, Katherine lived here for three years."

"Is it important?" Lestrade asked.

"Could be." Sherlock replied.

Lestrade met him with an equally patronising gaze, "If I am to request permission to go looking through a girls bank account details, I need a damn good reason why."

"Well, the trouble is it could be important, but you won't know until you have her bank details. Or at least the wage she had for her job and the cost of living here in retrospect to that."

Lestrade frowned, "... it's sounding a lot like you suspect an illegal immigrant."

"I am very curious to hear about her history, you've guessed. It's taking quite a while to dig up, isn't it?"

* * *

John, however, was not convinced. His records at the surgery said she was British, and an orphan. Lestrade asked him to check during the interview, held in the spare, unbloodied bedroom. All the records were highly secure and accurate, including the empty space where 'next of kin' should have been written. Basically, everything was in order, apart from the odd details, but as Lestrade muttered, it wasn't enough to conclude that Phillips _was_ an illegal immigrant.

Watson answered all of Lestrades questions truthfully but in the end, Lestrade didn't seem pleased with the evidence. Phillips was jumpy, nervous, pale and sleep deprived. Had she expected this to happen? And if so, why hadn't she said anything, or called the police about it? And had, once again, Watson really not suspected anything? John was getting pretty fed up of that being asked. No, he said, no I didn't.

Sherlock was currently looking through drawers downstairs for more evidence to the girls existance. Papers for the house, records of achievements or anything that would suggest there was once life inside this house. He could find no pictures, no letters... but he did find several old used batteries Phillips had forgotten to throw away, seemingly blank CDs without cases, an old MP3 player, post-it notes with nonsense scribbled all over them...

He was reminded all of a sudden about his old life. Completely separated from the world, it was him and his mess, him and his belongings which held a considerable amount more value that he really knew. His own CD's full of orchestral music and violin solos would just lie scattered anywhere, and his post it notes were always forgotten about.

But Sherlock just kept looking through for house documents or university letters. He found none.

The house did look lived in, tuna stained microwaves and a fridge with cheap frozen meals still inside, old cutlery still washed and broken scissors repaired with sellotape. So why couldn't he find any of the important legal documents?

On the table was a large plastic box labeled 'EVIDENCE' full of plastic bags of items that the detectives had collected. Sherlock had a quick peek inside, ruffling through until he found a passport. He opened it to look at it properly, and found the same photograph at the back as the one that the news had shown. It said she was born in a hospital all the way in Devon, twenty seven years ago. So maybe she wasn't an immigrant, or by the look of this passport, at least not illegally. Quietly he tucked it inside his coat pocket. Phillips had already been identified, the police didn't need this as of yet. He expected them to come after him once they noticed it missing, but by then Sherlock wouldn't need it anymore.

One thing he did wonder consider... the mattress wasn't just ripped down the middles, the corners had been torn apart and covered in blood. His own mattress had been opened at the corners to hide some incrimidating documents about himself and he's sown it back together afterwards, but that was because he had things to hide. Did Phillips have things worth hiding?

Yet, he had to admit, he'd had much more thrilling cases. These paled in comparison.

John met him downstairs, at which point Sherlock explained his lack of finding anything of value.

"No documents about the house or her university application. Not even a CV."

"What does that mean?"

"Probably nothing." Sherlock shrugged, "a woman on the run? Maybe from family or a jealous partner. Doesn't strike me as a criminal."

Lestrade came in at that point. "Even so, she was murdered and brutally."

"Think about it," Sherlock said, "a nine stone body at least, pretty much bled dry if the sheer amount of blood is anything to go by, but no other remains, carried away in bin bags you say-" he stopped mid sentence, causing Lestrade and John to lean in... until John had a thought.

"You're kidding me." John said, and he led the chase outside to the garden, throwing open the big black bin at the end of the pathway. Empty... and clean. Sherlock cursed as John put his face in his hands and groaned.

Lestrade looked between them. "You don't _honestly_ think..."

"No," Sherlock said, "that's not it. But there could have been crucial evidence in there, official papers about Phillips, since there's none in the house."

"What makes you say that?" John asked. "I mean, you're implying that she, or someone else, got rid of them for a reason."

"Well, there's got to be a reason. Maybe someone else was in them, and so destroying them would clear there name..." Sherlock scratched his cheek, "yes, that makes sense. Perhaps Phillips owned this house with someone else, who wasn't paying, so rather than have to pay up, the someone else removed of her and the forms that would get him a jail sentense. Some little domestric issue like that I imagine."

John stared at his companion, bewildered. _The moment Sherlock thinks he's solved it, it becomes the most boring thing in the world._

"So, Lestrade, I bet you could wrap this one up by researching into the second copy of the documents that the estate agents owned, including those the university has about Phillips. Find anyone who knew her and interview them excessively. Look for the generally smart ones that timed this attack to coincide with bin day." He smiled a little, but it was lacking in any comfort, "Perhaps you were right after all, you don't need me for this case."

But he kept the passport in hidden safely in his pocket.

* * *

**A.N- **Hahaha! You can probably tell I'm not a detective. My clues are _awful_. Anyway, decided to speed it up a little. I'll try not to do too many chapters. **:)** I'm posting this now, but will probably go back to it later if I get any CC. I tend to do that.  
Advice and CC is ALWAYs appriciated. Thank you ever so much for all your reviews and comments so far!

**Thanks for Reading!**


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